The Grey Hunter
by shawn30446
Summary: It's been a few years since Dovahkin saved Tamriel from Alduin. The civil war is over, and Skyrim is peaceful. However with it appears evil is hunting down the weak once more. Only this time; something's hunting back. Rated M for Violence and Language.


**The Grey Hunter**

The merchant wagon made its way down the road at a slow pace, it was loaded down supplies and mercantile items purchased in Markarth. Bersi Honey-Hand had been to the hold in search of new, exotic goods to sell in the Pawned Prawn in hopes of attracting more business. They had stayed the night before in Falkreath, and were happy to have put the macabre town behind them. As they made their way, one of the back wheels of their wagon fell into a rut, busting three of its spokes and leaving them stranded with the closest settlement being Ivarstead, a six hour trekbehind them.

"Son of a bitch! we'll never make it back by nightfall now! And the divines only know what lurks out in these woods," said Bersi.

"Don't you worry, nothing out there is a match for Sabine," said the large Nord, patting his enchanted steel battle-axe lovingly.

No sooner did the last word leave the nord's mouth, was it replaced by the barbed head of an orcish arrow.

"TAKE WHAT YOU CAN CARRY! LEAVE NO SURVIVORS!" came a frightening shout, right about where the arrow originated from.

Seven Orcs emerged from the roadside foliage: six were of a dull green complexion, clad in hide and Iron armors, another, much larger one came forth clad in traditional Orsimer heavy armor, his skin as black as his hair and tusks protruding up nearly to his eyes.

"There's dwarven shit in here! Lots of it!", yelled a younger orc to the large one, who seemed to be their leader.

"Take only what's valuable. We need to move quick. Kill the milk-drinker in the driver's seat and bring me that axe," said the leader.

Bersi grabbed the dead nord's weapon, "Don't none o' you monsters come near me, or I'll split you, I swear it!".

"Gurrud, stick an arrow in him and let's be done with this. Gurrud?" he turned to their resident archer.

Gurrud was no longer there. His longbow was left in his stead.

"What in Oblivion? Who's there? Spread out!" The bandits readied their weapons and scanned the roadside for who or what took Gurrud.

"I found Gurrud!" cried an orc clad in studded armor, hide boots and toting a steel mace. He did not sound relieved.

Gurrud was seated, propped up against a tree with a lit in his throat from ear to ear. His scalp had been peeled from his skull.

"FIND ME THE WHELP OF A WHORE THAT DID THIS!" cried the leader.

They all moved out further into the woods, all save one.

"Grollo move your ass, we're going to find this bastard and show him what color his liver is!" The leader yelled, but to no avail. Grollo stood still, silent, with his back to a tree.

An orc in furs walked toward Grollo only to find him dead. The only thing keeping him standing was an iron dagger through his throat, into the sapwood of the tree.

"Grollo!"

"Holy Malacath!"

"He was just next to me!"

As the remaining five orcs tried to fall into a back to back huddle, a growling sound eminated from a dense clump of vines and undergrowth. The beast burst forth a grey blur slamming into an orc. It was a wolf, dark grey with burning yellow eyes. It was nearly the size of an ice wolf.

"GET IT OFF ME! GETITOFF GEDIDAAGGGGGHH!" His final words ended in intelligable gurgling as the wolf tore his throat out.

Another growling mass of fur burst forth from the underbrush on the other side of the road. He tackled another orc from behind, gripping its powerful jaws around the orc's neck. He wasn't allowed last words as the wolf bit down, crushing the bones in his neck. the sickening crunch was the last thing anyone heard from the orc.

The bandit leader saw that his group of highwaymen, fearless orsimer warriors all, had just been reduced to two and himself in just a few heartbeats. He quickly unsheathed his huge orcish greatsword slung across his back. He raised it high above his head and was going to decapitate the nearest wolf; until he took an arrow in the back of both his knees.

The leader screamed in pain, dropping his sword and falling incapacitated next to it.

The remaining pair of orcs looked to where the orcs came from, and saw the most frightening thing they had ever witnessed.

He was a Nord, standing at about six feet tall, not very big for a nord. he looked to be middle aged with hair that was the color of granite, dreadlocked and held back with a bit of rawhide. He had a beard of the same dark grey, reaching all the way to his chest. But the feature that stuck out the most were his cold, unfeeling, icy blue eyes.

He began to sprint towards the pair of orcs. He threw down his hunting bow, pulling an iron war axe from his belt. he ran past the tree to which Grollo was pinned, deftly snatching his dagger free, allowing Grollo's body to crumple unceremoniously to the ground.

An orc tried to wrench his steel sword free, receiving a dagger in the ribcage for his effort.

The final orc summoned all of his might to turn and run making it nearly past the wagon before he felt a solid punch to the back of his head. His legs refused to move any farther. His visioned dimmed to darkness, and then all was black.

The Nord stepped over to the armored leader, bypassing the feasting creatures. He took a brown leather roll off of his belt, dropping on the ground beside the orc, and knelt down. He grabbed the braid on top of the huge orc's head, pulling up until they were face to face.

"Not very fun going from predator to prey is it?" said the nord.

"What in oblivion do you want?" responded the Orc, trying to conceal the agony he was in.

"I want you to reap all the pain you have sowed across Skyrim," he said throwing the orcs face to the ground, flipping him over. He then ripped the barbed steel arrows from the orcs legs, causing him to bellow like a wounded mammoth.

He turned the orc back over, grabbing his braid in one hand, and the roll in the other. He pinned his elbows to the ground with his knees, unfurling the roll with practised ease. The roll contained a Torturer's kit.

The Nord selected a set of pliers. "When hunting animals, I hunt for survival. I appraise their meat and their hide. I make absolutely sure that i can take them down quickly, and use their body to provide for me and mine. However; when i hunt your ilk, i do it to inflict pain and fear. You feel the pain. your friends who hear the stories of what happened here, how you were ravaged by beasts and turned into trophies, they will feel the the fear." He clamped the jaws of the tool around a tusk. The wet ripping noise could be heard above the orcs screams. The second was worse. The orc, the leader of the most feared company of raiders in the Rift, had turned into a mewling babe. He pissed himself.

The Nord then set to take his final trophy. He seized the long and braided lock on the centre of the Orc's head, pressed the flat of his dagger down onto the scalp, sawing the blade back and forth the way a fisherman fillets a salmon, separating the scalp from the skull. Then, with a quick and sudden jerk of his hand, he ripped it entirely from the Orc's head. He wrung the blood from his reeking trophy, coolly hitched it under his belt, and proceeded to the next, gathering all of the scalps.

He allowed his canine friends to ontinue their feast, walking towards the wagon. The merchant was wide-eyed.

"What just happened?" he cried.

"You just got attacked by Shakron Night-Hide and his band of marauders. They're from Largashbur, and have been preying on travellers nd homesteaers for years. I've been stalking the crew for two weeks straight," replied the fur-cld warrior.

"Then you must be the Grey Hunter! All nine holds tell tales about you! You're the one who keeps the wilderness clear for travelers, I thought the stories were drunken ramblings, but here you are!" he said marveling at the hunter.

His stocky frame was thick with muscle, broad shoulders and strong arms and legs; not the type you'd guess to be so swift and sneaky. His body wore scars from head to foot. He has a walks with his shoulders forward, but steps lightly and silently. His face kept the same stoic expression throughout the entire skirmish. His armor appeared similar to that of stormcloak officers, only as stormcloaks used bear pelts in the construction of their armor, the hunter had used that of an Ice wolf. Around his neck he wore an amulet of ice wolf claws and a pendant that appeared to be ivory carved in the shape of a wolf's head. in addition to todays scalps, there were almost ten more hitched to his belt, as well a long rawhide thong festooned with orc tusks that reached nearly to his ankles.

"I don't know anything about those stories, I keep a habit of not staying to close to people." said the Hunter.

"But, as many bandits as you've slain, Each Jarl must owe you at least a thousand Septims!" cried the merchant. "please, we're almost to riften, allow me to buy you a drink at the bee and barb, and on the morrow you can tell the jarl who you are. She may even show you the lairs of more of these vermin. Please consider!".

"I'll fix your wheel, But they wouldn't let me in those walls," he gestured to the wolves, "not with them."

"My cousin tends the jarl's kennel, they'll stay there, and be treated better than a quarter of Riften's citizens," the merchant pleaded to the hunter.

After much thought, the hunter whistled, bringing the two wolves close to him. "If this Jarl can tell me where more of these lowlives are, this little trip may be worth it."

The body of the guard was wrapped in a sheet and placed in the back of the wagon. the wheel was repaired and bumping along the road as the sun set and the unlikely companions rode to Riften.


End file.
